


popinjay

by thegreatpumpkin



Series: these many years [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, unrequited adolescent mooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:15:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2740535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A growth spurt and a deft hand with knives does not a man make.” Glorfindel spars with Ecthelion, and learns a bit about adulthood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	popinjay

**Author's Note:**

> While working on [The Right Word](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1024505/chapters/2039226), I realized I needed to flesh out the history between Ecthelion and Glorfindel. Therefore, these vignettes are set in the TRW universe, but can be read as a standalone.
> 
> Also, the amazing snuskens drew me [birthday Glorfindel and Ecthelion](http://hinkypunk.co.vu/post/127149154687/happy-birthday-forgetful-asexual-lemme-just), and THEY ARE SO PERFECT.

**Vinyamar, Nevrast  
FA 7**

“It seems my advice hasn’t fallen on _entirely_ deaf ears. I can see you’ve been focusing on your footwork.” Ecthelion sheathed his blade with a nod of approval. “Get some water, Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel glowed. It wasn’t exactly effusive praise, but it was a far cry from his tutor’s usual mockery. And besides, Ecthelion had used his name, when usually it was _Goldilocks_ or _Ice-Dancer_ (a reference to an embarrassing long-ago incident which Glorfindel would have very much liked to forget) or some other disparaging nickname. He didn’t take it personally—Ecthelion was like that with everyone—but it did make the times he bothered to call him by name particularly significant.

Glorfindel drank most of his waterskin in a few gulps and dumped the remainder over his head. It was hot outside, especially after they’d been sparring for most of the morning, but he liked the heat in Nevrast; most of his childhood had been spent in terrible, terrible cold and starlit dark. He liked the bright burning gaze of the sun, though he could understand those of his kin that preferred the gentler moon. He’d shed his tunic early on, and might send his shirt after it in a moment more. He should have braided his hair up for the heat, probably, but he thought it looked handsomer loose—which meant, of course, that he _always_  wore it loose when there was a chance of seeing Ecthelion.

Not that the elder elf noticed, or cared! Glorfindel was no longer the child he’d taught on the Helcaraxë, but he might as well have been. He was a lord in his own right, now, charged with the decisions of his household (admittedly, most of which were immediately delegated to his mother, who had more experience in that regard). But Ecthelion acted as if he was—at best—a slightly disappointing pupil, and at worst an annoying tagalong.

Glorfindel kept at it anyway. He lived for days like this, when Ecthelion acknowledged—however briefly—the immense amount of work he put into trying to please him. There were  so many proverbs about the patient, the dedicated, the dutiful. Surely if he kept to his course, _someday_ Ecthelion would come to care for him.

“Enough swordwork for the day. Let’s work on knives for a bit.” Ecthelion gave him a sharp look. “But tie up your hair first, it’s been in your eyes all morning. If you come back like that tomorrow, I’m cutting it off. You’re a warrior, not a bloody bard.”

Chagrined, Glorfindel made a quick braid and tied it off with a lace from his discarded tunic. So much for _that_ hope.

He was, at least, relieved to move to knives. They were his strongest suit; he was fair with a sword but weak at the spear, which was unfortunately Ecthelion’s weapon of choice. He would struggle along gamely with whatever he was assigned, of course, but it was embarrassing to be so poor at it, and his continued lack of skill tended to make Ecthelion cross. He hadn’t had a spear on the Helcaraxë, so he’d only had the chance to learn since arriving in Nevrast, but Ecthelion didn’t care for excuses.

“Watch your side today, Sunshine.” Nicknames again—worse and worse! “I know you think you don’t have to because you can block faster with the knives, but if you keep leaving that side open I’ll make a point of demonstrating you’re not as fast as you think you are.”

Glorfindel, cheerful soul though he might be, was not entirely immune to needling. “Faster than _you_ ,” he muttered under his breath, before he could quite help himself. It wasn’t untrue, though Ecthelion of course had the benefit of experience.

“I beg your pardon?” He had Ecthelion’s full attention now. Before he could apologize or retract the remark, his tutor was advancing; he barely had time to get his knives out before Ecthelion was upon him. “Let us see, little popinjay, since you know so much. How fast are you _exactly_?”

Even caught off guard, Glorfindel held his own with reasonable skill. He _was_ fast, and furthermore, he’d grown very good at reading Ecthelion (being unable to look away from someone had its advantages, in the long term).

“Good,” hissed Ecthelion, as Glorfindel blocked a strike and nearly got inside his guard on the rebound. “How long can you maintain this pace?”

Glorfindel knew better than to boast, but he thought he could endure, maybe even until his tutor tired of the game. He tried for a lunge and was rebuffed, but his swift recovery on the aforementioned problem side made Ecthelion grin. “ _Good_. If you don’t tire in half a moment, Goldtress, I might start to think I haven’t been wasting my time.”

On the wings of _that_ immense compliment, Glorfindel found his footing. There was a state of calm alertness he could sometimes manage, where things began to come more easily—not automatically, as he was still in control, but naturally, as with long practice. He could keep his focus without adrenaline knocking it off course. When he had time to think on it, he’d wondered if this was what soldiers called a battle-trance, but at the moment, he was entirely in it with no room for scholarly musings. He moved fluidly, blocking and striking with precision, his steps light and steady even as Ecthelion pressed him harder.

Ecthelion did not believe in striking with the flat of the blade when sparring. His opinion was, if you were ready to move away from wooden practice weapons, then you were ready to bleed for your mistakes (though of course he would never do _real_ harm). Glorfindel had come away from their lessons with a sliced and bloodied sleeve or a nicked leg more times than he could count. But what he had never, ever done until now was leave _Ecthelion_ bleeding. So when the line of red bloomed across the shoulder of his tutor’s white shirt, Glorfindel almost didn’t grasp what he was seeing. He might have continued the fight, save that Ecthelion dropped back suddenly, examining the scratch with a sort of surprised delight.

“Well _done_ , Glorfindel.” It shook him out of his reverie. He didn’t think he’d ever heard those three words together from Ecthelion before. “There’s a good lesson in that, too, little popinjay. If you’re going to boast, be able to back it up. I’m well satisfied for today. We can take a look at your miserable spear work tomorrow.”

Made a little bold by the approval, Glorfindel said, “Why do you call me that? Little, I mean. I’m taller than you, now, and not a child either.”

Ecthelion laughed at that in a way that wounded his newly puffed-up pride. “You think not? A growth spurt and a deft hand with knives does not a man make.”

“That is not all I have in my favour!”

Ecthelion smiled in that sarcastic way of his. “Do tell. What secret escapades qualify you for adulthood, do you suppose? When you’re not leaping at Turgon’s beck and call to curry favour there, you’re mooning after me. I wonder what else you could possibly have time for?”

“I don’t—” Glorfindel started in dismay, unsure which accusation to deny first, not least because they were both true.

“You do,” said Ecthelion, then clapped him on the shoulder, although not very sympathetically. “Brace up, it seems to be working with Turgon. He admires your spirit. I don’t doubt he’ll put you in charge of something important one of these days. And as for me, you’re not the first lovesick youth to dog my steps, only the most persistent. I live in hope you’ll grow out of it.”

Glorfindel was mortified, all his earlier delight forgotten. “You...knew?”

Ecthelion snorted sharply. “ _Everyone_ knows, Sunshine. Did you think it was subtle?”

He didn’t think things could get any worse, which somehow made him blurt out, “And what if I don’t? Grow out of it? Even if you think me a youth, I will not be forever.”

Ecthelion threw back his head and laughed even more. “Oh, little golden one, don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to,” he gasped. “You couldn’t handle me, even if you could manage to get me.”

Glorfindel, miserable, did not try to argue the point. Instead he sulked quietly, collecting his things, sheathing his blades, and thinking of how very much he would dread coming to his lesson in the morning. He almost would have sought out a new tutor just to avoid it, but of course, Ecthelion would never have let him off that easily. More likely he’d have come after his wayward pupil and made a scene, so Glorfindel resolved to take his medicine by coming again tomorrow—but for now, all he wanted to do was slink off somewhere to nurse his humiliation in private.

“Oh, stop looking like a wounded deer.” Ecthelion tossed him his tunic, his voice as kind as he could make it, which was not very. “I’ll make you a deal: give me an extra hour tomorrow on your spear work, and I won’t bring it up again.”

“Fine.” Glorfindel slunk out of the training yard like a scolded dog, but his mind was turning over, and he soon came to a resolution. If he could not make Ecthelion care for him, he could at least demand his respect. Starting tomorrow, he would not rise to his taunts, nor would he beg like a child for attention. He would be a man in spite of Ecthelion, not because of him.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. _his tutor_ : You might wonder why I have Ecthelion in this role, when they are equal in status.
> 
> Well...mostly because the journey across the Helcaraxë was all kinds of terrible. It seemed to me the kind of person who would normally teach young lords to use their weapons would be in demand for more survival-related stuff when you're crossing a ridiculously long ice bridge, and that any lessons happening during tht time would be more of an informal, "older kids teach the younger kids" sort of affair.
> 
> For the purposes of this universe, Ecthelion was just coming of age when they started the journey, and got saddled with teaching Glorfindel and several of the younger lordlings. I imagine Glorfindel is the only one he continued to train once they arrived in Beleriand, mostly because Glorfindel is _so damn persistent._
> 
> 2\. This all started with the Ecthelion in my head saying _You couldn't handle me._ I had to find out the context...and this is what came of it.


End file.
